


L’Homme qu’il n’aurait pas Quitté

by iberiandoctor (Jehane)



Category: 19th Century CE France RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Oblique references to spankings, Three Glorious Days, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21531490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: The veteran soldier during the Three Glorious Days, and that which his devotedchansonnier— living in their quiet retreat — would have remarked upon at his side on the battlefield of power.
Relationships: Jacques-Antoine Manuel/Pierre-Jean de Béranger
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	L’Homme qu’il n’aurait pas Quitté

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



On the last of what was later to be known in song and story as the Three Glorious Days, in the late evening of the 29th of July 1830, Manuel returned home. 

For the better part of those three days, Béranger had been waiting for the familiar, distinctive sound of Manuel’s footfall at their door. He had tried to occupy himself with his work, which was the truest and best form of service he could undertake for their cause — after all, wine and love were only able furnish frameworks for such ideas as might pre-occupy a France newly wakened to freedom, while the singer’s art could find its way equally into drawing rooms and the tables of common public gardens of Paris, in order to stir up the spirit of the people for revolution. 

But it had not been easy to work when all of Paris had taken to arms against their oppressors, in the wake of the King’s Saint-Cloud Ordinances — published in the 26th July edition of _Le Moniteur_ — that had sought to muzzle the free press and to further emasculate the Chamber of Deputies while making a mockery of their Constitution. Even less easy for Béranger to remain in the safety of their quiet little nook in Clignancourt when his beloved friend had been among the first to join the oppressed masses on the front lines against the First Military Division of Paris and the Royal Guard. 

Even after his unconstitutional ejection from the Palace of Deputies, Manuel had unselfishly continued to support the former colleagues who had betrayed both him and their national cause; when those fair-weather friends had sought to restore to him his former position in the elections of 17th and 24th November 1827, he had rightfully refused. Stepping modestly away from the public gaze, he had left Béranger to be the torchbearer for their dearly-sought republic. But when word had arrived on the 27th of the growing protests against the Ordinances, of factories shuttered and workers turned out into the street, the former Deputy donned his coat and hat, took up the ceremonial sabre he had retained from his military days and his copy of the 1814 Constitutional Charter, and prepared to leave the house.

“Where will you go?” It wasn’t a question, of course, of why. Both of them had always remained prepared to lay their lives down for their cause.

“To the offices of _Le National_ ,” Manuel said, which was the newspaper that young Thiers had founded earlier that year. “Liberal journalists won’t be so easily frightened out of work; they will undoubtedly be protesting over the new law.” He paused to kiss his friend. “Don’t wait up for me, I might be a while.”

That had been three days ago. 

On the first evening, in lieu of the man himself, an envoy arrived at No. 23, Rue des Martyrs – a gamin, bearing a note, written on good paper in that distinctive hand and with that customary concision. 

_Police have sacked the presses, and there is widespread unrest,_ the first note read. _T. and the others planning to leave Paris to avoid arrest, but I will remain here to do what I can. More anon._

This, of course, was entirely characteristic. Unlike their former protégé, Manuel would never have placed his own personal safety over the needs of the populace. Instead, he would have taken himself from the printing presses at Rue St. Marc into the Barricades, of which, according to their portress, hundreds had apparently been erected in the course of the day. Béranger knew he would have been at the heart of the planning and the fighting, standing shoulder to shoulder with the workingmen and students and old soldiers with their old muskets and rudimentary arms, at the Rue St. Honoré or the Boulevard St. Antoine or wherever the combat was the worst, and not stinting from offering up his finite reserves of strength for others’ sake.

Had his beloved friend managed to rest for a few snatched moments in the break from the fighting, perhaps on a sheltered corner of the Place de Grève or near his former place of work at the Palace of the Deputies? That night Béranger lay down on the horsehair mattress he shared with Manuel, sleepless as he had been in his nine months of imprisonment at La Force, and stared unblinkingly at the ceiling until the day broke.

The second day brought news that a committee of their Opposition friends — Laffitte, Casimir Périer and the comte de Lobau, among others — had drawn up a petition seeking the withdrawal of the Ordinances. This document professed to not criticise the King, but his ministers — a concessionary framing which _Le National_ considered to be cowardly. Béranger rather agreed; he wished he could express surprise over Laffitte’s compromise, at least, but the most he could do was muster an exhausted resignation. He supposed Manuel would have been swept into these diplomatic efforts, and at least would have had occasion to rest his battle-weary limbs under Laffitte’s opulent roof at the Rue d’Artois.

That evening, the note from Manuel read: _So far all have refused to parlay with the Committee. We will try again, this time with P._ (This was undoubtedly a reference to Charles X’s chief minister, de Polignac.) _Stay indoors. I fear there will be more bloodshed._

This was also Béranger’s fear; in particular that the blood shed would be that of his courageous friend. The day before, he had managed to eke out a few lines regarding glory and duty and how noble it would be to die for France, but on this one he had been quite unable to compose a single couplet.

The third morning, Béranger ventured forth into the Rue des Martyrs to procure sustenance for their table. 

The streets were eerily calm, but everywhere was the lingering acrid tang of musket smoke and the faraway sounds of gunfire. Glass and debris lined the thoroughfares; the street lanterns, strung on rope-posts, lay broken on the ground. It was blisteringly hot. In the distance the tricolour flag of the people could be seen flying over buildings and draped from windows, and several freshly-printed posters put up on the fences along the Rue Saint-Lazare declared that the Duke of Orleans — _“a Friend of the People!”_ — should claim the crown from the power-addled Bourbon line.

According to the handful of proprietors who were lingering outside their shuttered stores and wine-shops, it seemed that there had been a horrific rout of the cavalry and mounted gendarmerie in the fighting at the Tuileries and the Place Vendôme. One of the proprietors recognised Béranger and eagerly conveyed the morning’s news: the Prefect of Police had been seen fleeing Paris in the early hours, and, having failed in their mission to broker peace with Polignac and the King, Laffitte and General Lafayette had announced the Opposition politicians had decided to form a provisional government.

“My son was there yesterday when two regiments of the line came over to our side, and General Gérard led the charge at the Place Vendôme,” that old stalwart said. “He said the King’s troops fired upon them but no one gave way, and all shouted, _General Gérard, we will never forsake you, nor brave Deputy Manuel_!”

Oblivious to Béranger’s surprise at this proclamation, the old man continued, “They took the Hôtel de Ville that morning, though they were turned back in the evening after the royal artillery was brought in. My boy said that mountains of dead patriots have covered that place. But the people will not be quelled, and will be making the attempt again today, you mark my words!”

“Manuel is no longer a Deputy,” Béranger murmured. His heart was full of immense pride and trepidation in equal measure. 

Béranger’s constitution was weak at the best of times, and moreover he had never so much as lifted a weapon in his life, having managed to avoid the civic duty of the National Guard by pleading ill health. His presence would only serve to distract Manuel when his friend could least afford it. Moreover, he did not know whether Manuel would be at Laffitte’s side, attempting to craft a way forward for the new government, or at the front lines of the fighting to retake the Hôtel de Ville — if he were not already to be found in the aforementioned mountain of corpses covering the Place de Grève.

When he returned to No. 23 with black bread and cheese, he found a note pushed under their door.

It read, _At the Hôtel de Ville. We press on. L. and T. have a plan, and despite my misgivings I will attempt to vouchsafe it. I will return to you when I can._

It seemed, then, that his friend had survived the night. In lieu of breaking his fast, Béranger opened one of Manuel’s bottles of vintage Burgundy. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on the magnificent war of the Revolution, but as a philosopher, he could not think of any war that was paid for in dead bodies as glorious.

_When each new mortal age its course begins,  
The fields lie bedaubed with human blood._

This couplet was hardly rousing, and would not be an easy sell to his publishers, who kept asking for more cheerful material. Béranger put a line through it, and took up his wine-glass again.

Finally, when the sun had waned in the sky, and the wine-bottle was quite empty, and Béranger had resigned himself to yet another solitary, sleepless night, there was the longed-for sound of a heavy, measured treading upon the stairs, and the scraping of a key in the lock of their door.

And the sight that was even more longed-for: the tall figure of Manuel in their doorway. 

Three days of physical and political struggle had laid no mark on the lean, vigorous lines of him, his dark hair in disarray, his eyes bright with victory, looking for all the world as he might have in his youth as a dashing young captain at the Battle of Arcola. He was hatless, his sword-belt was empty, and he had what looked like someone else’s blood on his coat-sleeve. 

Béranger took a moment to drink in the view; in any case, after more than eight glasses of good wine, he needed the time in order to obtain his feet.

It was a poor showing for three days of work when the only welcome a songwriter could offer to his revolutionary lover was: “Why, you are home at last!”

“The Bourbons have fallen,” Manuel said, soberly. He did not say: _Vive la République_ , and Béranger understood why — the sun must have just risen on the untested Duke of Orleans, and if so France would have merely exchanged one royal master for another.

Still, it would be churlish to look askance at the immense gift Béranger had just been given: – the abdication of Charles X, the cessation of bloodshed in their city, and Manuel himself, home safe and seemingly unscathed by three days of war.

“ _Vive la Charte, vive la Révolution_ ,” he said, instead, and opened his arms for Manuel’s embrace.

Béranger had never been possessed of a particularly lachrymose sensitivity, but in the circumstances he felt he could be forgiven for the tears he now shed upon his lover’s battle-worn collar; besides, Manuel was weeping too. The years had been long, and they had often despaired of making progress; now, with the defeat of the ultraroyalists and this monarchy, victory appeared to be on the horizon at last, even if they might not live to see it. Indeed, it was a moment sweeter than he had ever dared imagined: to be standing witness on a summer evening to a Paris that had been finally liberated from the Bourbons, kissing his lover on the mouth, both of them grateful to have lived long enough at least to see their beloved France take this step towards freedom. 

“What did you do?” he asked, finally, when they were required by sheer physical restriction to dry their tears and surface for air. 

“It was Thiers,” Manuel said. “While we were making the attempt with Marmont, our young friend took it upon himself to ride to Neuilly, and managed to persuade Louis-Philippe to agree to a constitutional monarchy. He also convinced Laffitte that the people would accept the Duke, for the House of Orleans, at least, was sympathetic to the French Revolution. Now Charles has resigned, they are sending for our new king, in order to wrap him in a tricolour flag and present him to the crowd in front of the Hôtel de Ville. I did not wait to see it, but came to bring this news to you.”

Béranger rewarded this tender consideration with another kiss, though he did not stint to follow it with a more acerbic, “We always knew our protégé would outgrow us, but this shows an undue willingness to compromise his ideals.”

Manuel said, frowning, “I know, though we have tried the best we can to chastise that spirit out of him.”

They had indeed made many such attempts over the years, though Thiers had proved remarkably obdurate to all manner of chastisement. Béranger wondered what executive role might be offered to their young friend under the new constitutional monarchy, and whether it would still be appropriate to physically reprimand him were he made a minister of the government.

Instead, he remarked, “My poor friend, you can only ever do your best. As you have done here, in the cradle of this fledgling state which the last three days has brought forth.”

Manuel said, briskly, “It was Laffitte’s mid-wiving, and Lafayette’s, and the others. Périer, too; it was he who drew up the proclamation of the new municipal committee. I merely held the basin.”

Béranger snorted. Seven years of abandonment by these former colleagues in the Chamber of Deputies had made him far more jealous of Manuel’s contributions than that modest man would ever have been for himself. “Périer might claim a part in the birth, but in truth he has done no better than the registrar of the municipality who fancies himself the father of the child whose certificate of birth he has merely completed.”

Manuel chuckled. “Some may say that all of us who have played our part are brothers today, even Périer.”

“The work is ahead of us all,” Béranger agreed. He helped Manuel doff his dirty boots and his blood-stained jacket. Their portress had left water for washing, and it was in no way a dull duty to assist in sponging away three days’ worth of grime from his friend’s hale, agreeable physique that had been so favourably mentioned by parliamentary commentators.

Béranger murmured over a particularly lurid bruise that decorated his lover’s ribs, and Manuel said, “I am grateful to M. Staffel — do you remember him? He led the protests after my ouster from the Chamber. We have been fighting side by side at the Rue Richelieu. On the second day he disarmed the guard who gave me this blow, and then he saved that guard from receiving harm himself.”

“Staffel, the bootmaker from Alsace? Such bravery deserves a brace of songs, if the new government would not stand in its way.”

Manuel wrung out the cloth and then shrugged his way into a clean shirt, looking serious. “As you might imagine, Lafayette and Laffitte desire that I join the new government.”

“Did you agree?” Béranger inquired, though he knew well what his friend’s response would be.

Indeed, Manuel shook his head. “Others may, of course; Thiers among them. But as you know I cannot be a part of this government while France is not yet a democracy.”

“Do you think you will throw your hat into the ring once again?” But again, Béranger could surmise what the response would be. It seemed their seven-year idyll at the Rue des Martyrs, sheltered from the daily storms that buffeted the Chamber of Deputies and the idolatry and opprobrium of the public square, would soon be at an end.

Manuel reached for Béranger’s hand. “You should do so too,” he said, fierce and bright. “All of Paris admire your songs and your courage. If you were to take up a role in the ministry of public instruction, every student would find his way to our door.”

Manuel’s clasp was rough and calloused: the grip of an old soldier, and a veteran of many different wars. Béranger clasped back fervently. “Of course I would follow you anywhere, and with my eyes closed. Into the depths of Hell, even, so the Chamber of Deputies would only be a slightly more fearsome proposition. I will take up any role you wish me to, but you must know I can best serve you, and our beliefs, from the sidelines of this battlefield.”

Manuel took in a deep breath, and Béranger held his: for while he would never be anything but what he was, he equally had no desire to cause disappointment to his beloved friend.

Finally, Manuel said, smiling crookedly, “So be it. I would never wish to muffle your talent in any title, or official employment, even if all of Paris insists upon it. I know your peculiar feelings.”

Béranger found himself quite overtaken by a surge of emotion for this singular man: the fierce soldier and politician, in whom the loftiest sentiments were united with the gentlest affections, who placed utmost faith in the people of France, whom he would indeed have followed to the ends of the earth, even into the Palais Bourbon.

He said, hesitantly, “Well! —at least, in coming with you, I would save for you the time that you would have consumed, daily, in visiting me, had I been obstinately bent on remaining here in our quiet little refuge in Clignancourt.”

Manuel’s eyes lit up with happiness, and he drew Béranger close to him with his old vigour. “Indeed you would, because I would have as much need of you then as I do now.”

Béranger yielded to the pulse of their pent-up mutual longing, and to the noble entreaties of his lover, whose rekindled robustness and drive he had much cause to remember from their youth. Manuel had not been idle for these last seven years, far from it— and in their bedchamber least of all— but now it was as if the patriotic fire that had seen him expelled from the Deputies in 1823 had been stoked once more into an unquenchable flame.

Though they were no longer young, they made a valiant effort at reclaiming the fierce passions of their earlier years, the passage of love lasting well after the moon had waned over the Rue des Martyrs. 

At length Manuel subsided against the ruins of their sheets. In the moonlight, he looked like a carved monument of himself, as if nobility and patriotism could stand as proof against the mortal passage of time.

In a thoughtful voice, he mused: “We have been content in this refuge for these last few years, have we not? When the Republic rises at last, and I can be assured that France no longer needs us, we can then steal away from the responsibilities of Paris and live out the rest of our time in the country.”

Charmed by this image, Béranger laid his head on Manuel’s arm; embracing him, Manuel continued, “The Alps are temperate in the summer. There will be hunting, and in the winter we will keep a fire for you to warm your feet and to write your verses. And from time to time our friends will come to visit us, and we will give them our advice. Perhaps Thiers will surprise us with his ambitions, and he will steer the new republic that is to come with as much wisdom as we could have hoped for! And if the good God favours us, we shall live to see it.”

Béranger permitted himself to indulge in this fantasy for some moments. Well did he know this was the true idyll for his modest, simple friend, who wearied of the demands of city life and their political milieu. And yet, being that the welfare of France was his unceasing occupation, even beyond the welfare of his family and his lover, to say nothing of his own self, this idyll would never be more than an idle dream for Jacques-Antoine Manuel.

“You are such a devoted public servant, you will never leave the public life. If the good God favours us, you will be compelled to grow old in a position of eminence, and continue to hold the government to the standards required of them, so much so that some of the most ungrateful will whisper amongst themselves, _How unfortunate for us that the fellow is not dead_!"

Manuel laughed at this irreverence, and then a shadow crossed his brow. He pressed a hand to his gut, his lips tightening in a straight line. 

“Are you quite well?” Béranger sat up in bed, his brow furrowed. His robust friend, whose health and constitution had always seemed that of a much younger man, had lately been suffering from unexpected pains of the abdomen which seemed of no good origin. He had for months refused to consult a doctor, though their good friend, Dubois, had been insisting he pay a visit to the Faculty of Medicine. 

Manuel sat up as well, and placed his arm around his friend. “Fret not,” he said, firmly. “I do not intend to expire until I can be sure France will secure her liberty, and obtain the men who can govern her worthily.”

They had enjoyed years together. In that time, France had prospered from Manuel’s unswerving dedication, and now it would seem that true liberty might finally be on the horizon — and yet there might never be enough time for all they desired to undertake for their nation, and for each other. 

Béranger waited until he could be sure of his voice before he issued this proclamation. “God will take me before He takes you. Your service will usher in the Republic, I am certain of it, and I will be at your side for as long as I am able. Long may our vows to our great nation endure, and may your love also remain fast on me.”

“This is much too maudlin, songwriter. The songs on the morrow should be happy ones,” said Manuel, firmly, and drew him close once more to await the new day together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, M <3
> 
> From the [Author’s Preface to the 1833 edition of BÉRANGER: Two Hundred of His Lyrical Poems](https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/%C5%92uvres_compl%C3%A8tes_de_B%C3%A9ranger/Pr%C3%A9face_de_1833) (trans. William Young, 1850): _“It is probable that Manuel would have been forced to bear a part in the affairs of the new Government. I would have followed him, with my eyes closed, through all the pathways which it might have been requisite for him to take, in order to reach again, and speedily, without doubt, the modest nook that we shared together… And as soon as he could be assured that France no longer needed him, I would hear him exclaim: “Come, let's away, and pass our time in the country!"_
> 
> From 1824, Manuel and Béranger lived together at rue des Martyrs, 23 - see [Manuel et son temps](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6457089g/f512.item.r=B%C3%A9ranger), 498 - living [a simple life](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k9609634x/f178.image.r=Jacques-Antoine%20manuel%20beranger), ”in a building with a garden that offered them an agreeable retreat”, which truly looks like a [lovely little nook](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b84574126/f1.item.r=Jacques-Antoine%20manuel%20beranger.zoom) ♥
> 
> Other illustrious (former/subsequent) tenants at No. 23 were [the painter Géricault](http://www.neufhistoire.fr/articles.php?lng=fr&pg=1318&prt=1), and [Laurent Jan](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rue_des_Martyrs), secretary to Balzac.
> 
> Three Glorious Days anecdotes, including that concerning M. Staffel at p 32, were taken from [Hone, William (1830). Full Annals of the Revolution in France, 1830](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=10tiAAAAcAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false). I have, of course, taken some liberties to accelerate the timeline, largely as relates to Thiers and Louis-Philippe, which I’ve otherwise adapted from [Castries (1983), as recounted here](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolphe_Thiers). 
> 
> The descriptions of Manuel, including his [physical](https://www.ebay.fr/itm/264434416791?ul_ref=https%253A%252F%252Frover.ebay.com%252Frover%252F1%252F709-53476-19255-0%252F1%253Ficep_ff3%253D2%2526pub%253D5574735181%2526toolid%253D10001%2526campid%253D5336086427%2526icep_item%253D264434416791%2526ipn%253Dpsmain%2526icep_vectorid%253D229480%2526kwid%253D902099%2526mtid%253D824%2526kw%253Dlg%2526srcrot%253D709-53476-19255-0%2526rvr_id%253D2217699188593%2526rvr_ts%253Df5d8252416e0a4cc43639144fffb37c1&ul_noapp=true) [attributes](http://hauteprovencenumismatique.e-monsite.com/pages/content/medailles/jacques-antoine-manuel-1775-1827.html), owe much to his entry at pp 50-54 of [La Dictionnaire de la conversation et de la lecture, Vol 37](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=C6eWvfRP21sC&pg=PA50&lpg=PA50&dq=Jacques-Antoine+Manuel+taille&source=bl&ots=-88brpEnsE&sig=ACfU3U2lwf9J1ol2Pg1pVbHbbz1DMrzsHw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiUk5C0tf3lAhXNwzgGHUX7AsQQ6AEwDnoECAkQAQ#v=onepage&q=Jacques-Antoine%20Manuel%20taille&f=false).
> 
> Baron and [prominent surgeon Antoine Dubois](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoine_Dubois) was [at Manuel’s deathbed in 1827](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6457089g/f438.item.r=dubois).
> 
> Béranger’s thoughts regarding his beloved Friend and his beloved Republic echo those espoused in his [biography](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=JZcBAAAAQAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false), the aforesaid Author’s Preface, and [Poem 199.— ODE ON THE REVOLUTION OF 1848](https://archive.org/details/brangertwohundr00brgoog/page/n372), particularly this verse:  
>  _A victor thou — that strife heroic ended —_  
>  _Soon would thy thoughts to my still nook have tended;_  
>  _For most we need each other's cordial greeting,_  
>  _When nobly high the fevered pulse is beating._  
>  _Embracing as of old, with voice long pent._  
>  _Till in a kiss our tears at last were blent,_  
>  _"All hail, the Republic!" would have been our cry —_  
>  _Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!_


End file.
